Valerie did not stop chewing. "I would eat it," she replied with her mouth full, "if you were the one who bought it."
Demian frowned. "How would you know?"
Valerie swallowed. "I just know."
The answer was too simple. Too certain.
"It could have been Juan who bought the one you’re eating now," he said, clinging to the last thread of logic he had.
Valerie looked straight at him. No doubt. No humor.
"You bought it," she said. "I know the difference between when you buy it and when Juan does."
Demian let out a long breath.
He gave up.
He did not know how Valerie knew. He did not know what distinguished one bread from another. But he could not deny what he saw.
Valerie finished the bread until nothing remained.
Completely gone.
That was rare. And Demian noticed.
"Were you hungry?" he asked at last. "Or... did you simply like it?"
Valerie gently wiped the corner of her lips, then smiled a small smile. Unforced and unpretended.
"It tasted good," she said honestly. "When you’re the one who buys it."
Demian looked at her for a long mont.
And in that mont, sothing that had long been vague finally beca clear, It was not the bread Valerie wanted. Not the at.
Not the taste.
What she wanted was presence. Choice. Attention that was not given to anyone else.
And for the first ti, Demian realized, He was not rely fulfilling a craving. He was choosing. And Valerie knew it.
Demian did not rise imdiately after Valerie finished the bread.
He remained kneeling before her, one knee touching the floor a position that should have felt foreign to a duke, yet felt strangely right in this mont. His eyes followed every small movent she made, from the way she wiped her fingers to the quiet breath that signaled her body had finally settled.
"Then," Demian said at last, his voice low and slowly shifting, "now that you’re full... you have to do sothing for ."
Valerie fell silent.
She lifted her face, looking at Demian with a faint crease between her brows. His tone was not harsh, not commanding yet there was sothing beneath it that made her heart beat faster.
"What do I have to do?" she asked softly.
Demian stood and stepped closer. The distance between them narrowed, close enough for Valerie to feel the warmth of his body, close enough for Demian’s familiar scent iron, leather, and sothing she could never quite na to fill her breath.
"You have to make full," Demian replied.
Valerie blinked.
For a mont, her mind went blank. The words felt strange, not imdiately clear. She searched Demian’s face for aning and found it in those red eyes, now darker, deeper, filled with sothing that was not anger... but need.
Before Valerie could ask another question, Demian moved closer.
His hand rose to her jaw, gentle yet firm, his thumb brushing her skin as if asking permission yet also as if he already knew it was there. Then Demian’s lips t Valerie’s.
The kiss was not rushed.
Not rough.
But deep enough for Valerie to understand at once.
Her breath caught for a heartbeat, then she responded without thinking. Her body reacted faster than her mind and in that instant, the aning of full beca clear to her.
Not about food.
Not about hunger.
But about sothing else about closeness, about presence, about a need that could not be filled by anyone else but her.
Demian pulled back only slightly, just enough to look at Valerie’s flushed face, her breathing no longer steady.
"Do you understand now?" he whispered.
Valerie did not answer with words.
She only nodded faintly, her fingers unconsciously gripping the sleeve of Demian’s coat a response more honest than anything she could have said.
That morning should have been peaceful.
Valerie was seated near the window, soft morning light falling through her hair, when a servant entered with a faintly hesitant expression.
"Lady... there is a visitor requesting to see you. She gave her na Bianca."
Valerie turned, clearly surprised.
"Bianca?" she repeated softly.
The na was not unfamiliar. Far too familiar. She rose slowly, her stomach still slightly sensitive from the morning, then nodded. "Let her in."
Monts later, Bianca stood at the doorway.
She looked paler than usual, her eyes darting briefly as if making sure no one else was in the room. Once the door closed, she stepped forward without preamble.
"Valerie," she said quickly, almost urgently, "you have to help ."
Valerie frowned.
That tone this was not the greeting of a relative, but a plea bordering on desperation.
"Help you with what?" Valerie asked, her voice calm but guarded.
Bianca drew a breath, then said, "The Duke is helping my father arrange my marriage contract with Count Neilson."
Valerie fell silent for a mont, processing the words.
"Isn’t that what your father wants?" she said at last. "Count Neilson is a wealthy, influential rchant. You would beco a countess. That’s a position that—" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "Would make your father proud."
Bianca let out a small laugh, bitter and hollow.
"Pride?" she said. "Valerie, you know I love Adrian."
The na landed between them like a weight.
Valerie exhaled slowly. There was weariness in the movent not because of Bianca, but because she had heard this conversation too many tis, in too many forms.
"That relationship is impossible," Valerie said at last, not loudly, but firmly. "You know the rules. Your father would never—"
"That’s exactly why I’m here," Bianca cut in.
Valerie’s gaze sharpened.
"What do you an?"
Bianca stepped closer, lowering her voice. "What if you took in as your maid?"
Valerie froze.
"A maid?" she repeated, clearly not understanding. "What are you saying, Bianca?"
"I would be under your protection," Bianca continued quickly, as if afraid Valerie would refuse at once. "And under the Duke’s as well. If I stay in the castle, Father can’t force into marriage so easily. The Duke wouldn’t object you could speak to him."
"Delay it?" Valerie asked coolly. "What exactly is your plan?"
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